


a stranger beneath my face

by activatingAggro (pigeonfancier)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 17:33:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16623368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/activatingAggro
Summary: “What about my ancestor, you danderfluff?” you demand, nudging him. You don’t know why he’s gone all uncomfortable on you again, but it’s frustrating, after you just spent all this time getting him to loosen up. “You got one! Do I got one?”“Um.”He’s so bad at lying. “Well? Did you ask him? You asked him, right?”“.. yes?” He exhales slowly. He isn’t looking at you: he’s staring at the water, and his feet have gone still. “I asked him about yours. Because if I have one, and he has one, then you ought to have one, too. It.. ah, it wouldn’t be right, otherwise.”“So what he’d say?” You shouldn’t be pushing, maybe. Every bit of him’s screaming you ought to not ask, but if he won’t come out and say it, you won’t pay it any mind.  If it’s your ancestor, then it’s yours to know.“.. he said blood’s like water,” Pheres says, miserable, “and that means sometimes, it’s just bad.”Fate works in mysterious ways. The time Sipara Nzinga tries to save Pheres from life, and only mostly fails.





	a stranger beneath my face

**Author's Note:**

> _Father, have mercy_  
>  I know that I have gone astray  
> When I saw my reflection  
> It was a stranger beneath my face - the Lament of Eustace Scrubbs
> 
> This is the Sipara POV of Birds & Lions, and a fairly old fic. But I'm posting it up anyway, because I still like it.

> **0\. COIN | 7 years old / 3.27 sweeps**

“Catch!”

The caegar is dusty and green with age and rust, but it still cuts a nice figure as it twirls in the air high above. The green light catches on each rivet and groove, pink shadows deepening each curve, every place it bows out until it looks like something special: some kind of a gem, maybe, sparkling in the night air.

It isn’t! It’s just something you found in one of the journals and spit and polished until all the dirt had come off. Too old for the Imperial symbol to have been carved onto it! Too old for it to be of any more use than the wooden coins in the boxed games. But as far as you’re concerned, that just makes it all the better.

After all, wood rots! And you’d never get away with playing river games with a _real_ coin.

The moons are in your eyes at this angle. Everything’s green and pink moonspots and the purple sky above, and between those three, the caegar blends right in. You catch a glint of it. You snatch for it! And you miss.

Instead of landing neatly in your palm, the coin smacks into the water with an audible pop near your face, and you jolt back, spluttering with outrage.

From the shore, Sipara whoops.

It’s the start of the wet season, and even though the moons are high on the sky, the air is still heavy with a heat crisp enough to taste. It won’t stay hot and humid like this for very long. Soon enough, the rains will come proper, and you won’t be coming outdoors for a dozen caegars, never mind this silly little half-penny. But that’s nearly a perigee away, practically forever, and until then, you and Sipa are determined to take advantage of the heat.

“Way to go!” she jeers. No matter how much you beg, she refuses to ever get so much as her walkstubs wet. You even tried bribing her once, but she’d just stolen the apple you’d offered and eaten it anyway. And the only time you actually hauled her in, she’d bit you so hard that you’d had to get bandages from Whydah.

(They’d sucked their fangs at you when they’d seen the bloody weals, and then wrapped the bandages so tight you couldn’t feel your fronds for _nights_.)

But every time you head off to the river, Sipara’s always a step behind, trailing you like the world’s most dreadful shadow. She claims it’s ‘cause she’s waiting for you to drown, so she can take all your stuff and pawn it at the market, but she hangs around even when the river’s way too low for you to do much more than wade. You think she’s jealous!

Which is silly, because you keep offering to teach her to swim. _She’s_ the one that always refuses. But then again, _Sipara_ is silly. “You’re supposed to catch it, doofus!” she yodels at you now, hands on her hip. She’s leaning in close to the river, near enough that you can see her reflection on the water below.  “Not let it fall!”

You puff out your cheeks at her, pressing your palms to your face and wiping away the water. As much as you can manage, at least: staying in place like this is hard! Your head keeps bobbing down, trying to dunk you in the water ‘til even your top half’s completely submerged. If you stop thinking for half a moment, you’ll be pulled under.

Sipara’d scream if you were. She looks stressed enough just standing by the shore, like she thinks the water’s going to reach up and drag her under. You’re not sure what she’s so afraid of.

“Hard to catch it when you’re awful at throwing,” you call back. “Where did it _go,_ Sisi? Did it even land in here?”

Tilting your head down, you make a show of squinting down into the briny water, but you’re really watching her through your lashes. She leans down, big hands tight on her bendsockets. Her mouth is thin. “'course it landed,” she snaps. You can’t see her eyes like this, but you know they must be all thin and unhappy. You can’t see her face, either, with all her hair falling down around her like a curtain, not anywhere but in the water, where it’s too blurry to see what look she’s making.

Too blurry to tell her feelings, maybe, but just clear enough to aim. You let the silence sit just long enough for her to stew in it. She can’t _stand_ quiet, not really.  And then, right when she’s opening her mouth to say something else, you slap both hands into the water.

All that happens is she catches a mouthful of water, but the way she jolts, you’d think you hit her.

Sipara jerks back so quickly that her feet slip in the mud, and no amount of arm-flailing can keep her upright. She hits the clay soil with an audible plop, hair poofing up around her, her eyes saucer-wide in her face. Almost as big as her mouth, which’s already twisting open as she sucks in a breath.

You dive just as she lets off the first ear-piercing shriek of rage.

Underwater, you can’t hear it. (Underwater, she can’t hear _you,_ which’s good, 'cause you’re laughing.) The water is high and the river’s murky with silt and dirt, but ducking under’s comfotable, even when the current’s jerking you every which way. That’s alright. You just have to go _with_ it, and you let it tug you along a few feet, staring down at the bottom.

The water would’ve tugged the coin a long a little farther than it ought. But luckily, just along, and not out. This close to the shore, the ground’s near enough that you can feel it, brushing along the bottom of your psionics. And it’s close enough that the light of your aura cuts through the gloom as easy as clay. There’s still black on either side of you, tugging at the corners of your  vision where the light doesn’t shine, but that’s alright. You can see straight ahead, and that’s all you need.

Because right below you is the gleam of the coin, hiding in the silt on the bottom.

When you grab it, it’s heads.

* * *

> **1\. RMEROS | 4.15 SWEEPS / 8 YEARS OLD**

Pheres’s moirail’s got the biggest head you’ve ever seen. He’s the biggest _troll_ you’ve ever seen, really, if you count in his horns. And you sorta have to: they’re huge and curly and _ridiculous_ , curling all the way over his head and past his back, like he’s some sort of _wooly hairbeast._

“Rack like that,” you’d heard Khirba murmur to Whydah that first night, after the sun’d gone down and everyone had come streaming out into the courtyard, jostling past and floating up over each other to try and see: “- rack like that it, doesn’t really _matter_ his personality, does it?”

It’s no wonder he’s got a big head, when everyone won’t stop talking about him.

Especially Pheres.

 _“Sto~oppit,”_ you wail, clapping your mitts over your soundflaps. He just laughs at you, showing off his teeth in that dumb grin that always makes you want to smack him silly. “I don’t care!”

“Don’t be such a brat, Sipa!” He’s bustling around your hiveblock, rattling the dishes, hopping up on his toes to reach the shelves where you keep the sugar so bugs won’t get in. The tea’s on the hotplate, just barely starting up the whine that means it’s about ready. “If you’d stop being such a runny-faced wiggler, you’d like him, I promise! He’s so _smart_.”

“Almost as smart as _you_ ,” he adds, peeking back at you with a quick smile, and you let go of your ears.

“ _Almost_ as smart?”

“Almost!” The kettle whistles. He drops the mugs on the counter, sloshing the tea haphazardly in. Usually, your lusus would complain about how much’s slopping everywhere, but your pops is up in the rafters, sleeping again. He’s been doing that a lot ever since you got big enough to feed yourself. “I mean, he doesn’t _make_ stuff like you, but he knows all sorts of things!”

“What good’s about knowing things?” You nudge him away from the kettle, taking over before it all ends up on the floor. Pheres’s got tiny bird hands, barely big enough to fit your pop in 'em. Yours are bigger, and if you’re careful, you can just about keep the kettle steady.

“Rmeros says all the goods in knowing things. You can’t get nothing done if you don’t,” he says, shovelling sugar into your cup. When he sees you looking, he dimples at you. “Sugar to make you sweeter!”

You make a gesture that is not very sweet at all, and he laughs, passing you the mug. It’s warm in your hands. You blow on it, but he’s already sipping at his like the heat doesn’t bug him any. (It’s not fair! He can drink it straight outta the pot without complaining, but your mouth starts peeling just at the _smell_ of it.) “You’re going to meet him tomorrow,” Pheres says, and it’s not a question. “You’ll like him!”

Gingerly, you take a sip of your tea, and you get a mouthful of salt.

He stops laughing when you dump the cup on his lap.

***

“This is Sipa,” Pheres says a few hours later, his voice only a little muzzy.

Points to him! If he wasn’t all ruddy, you’d barely knew you broke his nose at all.

“You met her before.” He’s watching the two of you, bright-eyed but wary, like you’re stray meowbeasts about to scrap. Maybe he isn’t wrong! Rmeros is big, sure, but it’s one thing to know that and a whole 'nother to see it up close and personal. He’s as big as a lusus, towering over you. Big enough to be someone’s dad, and the fact he’s got his van behind him doesn’t make him seem any smaller.

It makes you feel small. It makes you want to _rip him apart_ until he feels the same.

“I remember her,” he says, eyeing you, and maybe he doesn’t see you’re two seconds from scratching off his face, 'cause he bends knee to you 'til his face’s even with yours. Your fronds curl into fists. He doesn’t notice that, either. “Hello there. You’re Sipara, aren’t you?”

You nod, stilted. His lips curl up, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Rmeros doesn’t have much to say after that. He leans back on the steps of his van, his back to the door, and he plays around on his fancy husktop. It’s got to be nicer than anything any of you lot have: as the older kids pass by, you can see them eyeing it, but he doesn’t pay them any mind.

You wouldn’t think he was paying you and Pheres any mind, either, but you can feel him watching. It’s weird. You don’t know _why,_ but then again, you’ve never met anyone from outside of the hivestem. Maybe they all sit there and watch like the slitherbeasts in the foliage, waiting to try and snatch your pops right outta the air.

He’s not looking at you, but it’s still like you can feel his attention. You manage to forget Rmeros is there anyway. It’s easy when he’s so quiet, and what starts off as a discussion _with_ Pheres turns into a lecture turns into a discussion of everyone else. And just like it always does, it turns into an argument.

The two of you fight, even when you’re agreeing. It’s been this way since you were itsy bitsy and you first got stuck in the hole between your walls. (The both of you were perfectly agreed on how much you wanted to get out of the wall. The trouble came in that neither of you could stop hissing long enough to manage it.) “Simoom’s terrible,” Pheres says, in that hushed, rapid-fire way of his, “but you can’t cull him, Sipa, that’s _silly_. You’re being silly. Again!”

“He’s not _that_ big!”

“It doesn’t matter when he can lift you up with his brain!” He frowns at you. “You’re going to start something and get hit, and you’ll _deserve it_.” He’s always on about that. It’s just a matter of _consequences,_ he says, like that’s anything but an excuse for the bigger kids to rough you up. “Even if you smacked him on the pan with a _rock_ , he’s still bigger –”

You whirl on your heel, flinging your hands out. “Pheres! You _nerd_!” He doesn’t jolt back quick enough to avoid you grabbing his face. Your palms squish into his cheeks. “That’s brilliant,” you crow. “If I hit his horns enough times, he won’t be able to do nothing at _all!_ Walk, spark, nothin’! _”_

A white-hot spark lands on your skin. You let go with a yowl, and as soon as you do, he’s dancing back. “Yeah,” he says, confused but pleased despite the side-eye he’s giving you. White’s still dancing across his horns and shoulders like a brazen warning. You stick your hand in your mouth, sucking on the warm spot. “Ah. I.. am brilliant?”

Rmeros laughs.

Pheres jumps in a crackle of psi. When you stumble back, blinking againsnt the light, Pheres’s right behind you, and the both of you end up sprawled out on the ground. “Get off,” Pheres yelps, shoving at you. “You’re _smothering me!”_ Both of you forgot Rmeros was there: he’s quiet as a fucking meowbeast, that’s what he is, leaning forward with his chin on his hand and his elbow braced on his husktop. His eyes are twinkling over the top of his glasses.

Not like Pheres when he gets pleased, all sparks and a light that makes your eyes water. But like he’s amused.

Like he thinks the two of you are a _joke._

“You two really _are_ pupas, aren’t you?”

When you give Alsike this look, she threatens to backhand you. Rmeros just laughs again, eyes squinching shut in a way that doesn’t happen when he smiles.

Pheres bats away your hand as soon as you offer it, scrambling to his feet and sidling away. You huff, squaring your shoulders. It’s not that your feelings are hurt! It’s just that he’s _dumb._ “Well, if you’re so smart,” you burst out, “what would you do?”

“Befriend him,” Rmeros says promptly, and it’s your turn to laugh. His smile shifts a little at that, turns to a shape you can’t quite identify.

“What’s your name, again?” he asks.

“Nzinga,” you say, and his smile fades.

* * *

> **2\. ADVICE | 4.58 SWEEPS / 9 YEARS OLD**

Everyone calls you Nzi, except for Pheres.

It’s always been Sipara with him. He says that’s how you introduced yourself, back when you first met, but you have your doubts: the only thing you remember from back then is knowing he was there, right on the other side of the thin plaster wall, and knowing that you _hated it._

It was your hive! It was your hive and your home and it was bad enough there were trolls on every end of you, breathing through the walls, breathing above and below you. But then you realised there wasn’t even a proper _wall_ between the two of your hives, just something you could punch right through, and it’d been terrible. If it wasn’t a wall, then it was your space. If it was your space, then he shouldn’t have _been there._

You bit him, the first time you’d met, just for the fact he was there and you didn’t want him to be. You don’t think you introduced yourself at all! Least, not before he’d wrestled you into the coon and half drowned you in it. Your lusus had shrieked and shrieked 'til you’d given in, and that’d been the first and last time those two had ever agreed on nothing.

But it doesn’t matter, 'cause when someone calls your name, you always know it’s Pheres. No matter how funny it sounds.

_“Sipara!”_

He’s doing his silly skip-hop again. Some of the floaters do a little skip-kick to launch themselves into the air, and he’s copied - except instead of floating up at the tip of his jump, he flickers and crackles, and when his feet hit the ground, he’s two, three feet ahead. He might’ve been the way back at the hivestem starting off, but it only takes him a minute to reach you like this.

His face’s still red and his breath all funny like he’s been running. “Sipa,” he says again, unsteadily. “Oh my _god_ , why are you in a tree?”

You kick your legs down off of your branch. “'cause I’m getting apples, duh!”

He’s on the other side of the fence, but Pheres is a brat: he doesn’t even have to scramble, he just makes that little noise that means you ought to close your ganderbulbs, and then jumps right over it.

When you open your eyes, he’s right below the tree, staring up. “Khirba said Simoom’ll dock our horns if we get caught stealing.” But he’s already unwrapping the scarf around his torso, and holding it up like a basket.

There’s a game to finding apples worth stealing. This early in the season, half of 'em are still green and barely worth the picking. The other half are all ripe, but the orchardkeepers like to tuck those branches away, keep em hidden. They’re little flashes of yellow in all the green, and you have to dig to find them.

“Simoom’s a stupid _fart_ and I’ll bite him if he tries.” The apples you’re throwing down are mealy and small, but it’s food. Pheres doesn’t care, past that.

But he didn’t just turn up for food. “'Sides, why’re you worrying? He’s not gonna do anything to you,” you call, sour, “since he’s,  like, over the moon for your dumb moirail.”

“Why’re you even here? Thought you’d be reading your dumb books.”

“I’m _allowed_ to go out,” he says, taking a bite of one of the apples. “I’m not stuck learning all the time.”

“Just whenever I’m supposed to see you,” you complain.

He opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it.

“.. I wanted to say you should be nicer to him,” he finally says, all stiff and prim. “He thinks you’re a brat. And you are!”

“Says the boy stealing all my apples!”

“I’ve only eaten one! And I’m holding them, so it’s not stealing.” He spits out an appleseed on the ground, then crunches through the core. “It’s just a tax.”

“That’s dumb, and so’s you.” You shift. “I’m not gonna be nicer to him. He’s _awful_.”

“Well, _you’re_ awful, so the two of you should get along just fine.”

You throw an apple right at his face for that.

There aren’t _that_ many apples. The grafters are too clever for that: they know people like to steal, and they don’t like to make it profitable. So you have to climb all over the tree, stretching out your legs and arms far as they’ll go as you pull and tug the branches. It’s tiring!

But it’s fun, too, and it’s worth it for the way that Pheres is all but bouncing with excitement as his scarf starts to sag with the weight of it. Pheres has been hiding away in Rmeros’s van for most of the hours of each night, coming in to visit you in breaks and right before he goes to sleep, like you’re just something to keep him busy when his moirail isn’t around. Like you’re an _afterthought._

But out here, you’re his _only_ thought. His big white eyes are watching your every move, and even if he’s all salty over it, he’s hanging off your every word. It’s just like the way things used to be,  when it was just you and him and your lusus and no one else in the world who gave the slightest damn about either of you.

“The guards, ” he says, and goes still.

'cause no matter how it feels, of course there’s still other folks here. Simoom assigns people to walk the orchards just to crack filchers like you. Last time Majlis had caught you, she’d given you four lashes, while your pops practically burned Pheres for holding him back.

It’s been perigees, but your back still aches at the thought. You hush.

It seems as if they might pass you right by. The orchards are big, and there aren’t that many kids that wanna do field duty, not when they could be having fun out playing at guards or making things. There’s only four kids at it any one night, and they like to split into two, the better to patrol. These two could be on their way home. They could be wrapping up for the night.

They’re lingering at a tree three rows down, though, writing down where a fruit got bit straight in half by some echoing squeakbeast, and they’re gonna be heading your way soon.

You’re motioning for Pheres to scatter before you even look up. “You gotta _go_ ,” you murmur, but he’s taking, too: “- no, no, _you_ have to go!”

“If you get switched again, then your lusus is gonna burn them, and Majlis’ll have her mum _eat him!”_ Now that they’re studying the next tree, you can see the three pronged points of Majlis’s horns. Ugh.

“If they catch you, Simoom’s gonna kick your butt!”

“What’s _that_ matter? He does it anyway.” Pheres huffs, looks away. His shoulders are up, but when he peeks back at the duo and catches a glimpse of your face, he blanches.

“No, no, I’ll be fine,” he says, quick as anything.  "He won’t do anything! Like you said, ah, he likes Rmeros, and Rmeros already got onto Khirba for smacking me, so he isn’t going to do anything but bark. I’ll be fine, so just - oh, just hurry up!“

You slide more than climb down the tree, the jagged bark dragging at your palms and feet. But your skin’s rougher than some dumb tree, and you don’t feel nothing, not even when you finally slip to the ground.

Pheres’s tying the scarf around your neck before your feet hit the dirt, the edges tucked so the apples are nestled close. He looks ridiculous without his wraps, all skin and bones and stubby little slashes of gray that barely count as grub scars. He must’ve been the tubbiest pupa.

He gives your ear a sharp tug. "You’re thinking something awful,” he informs you. “Stop! And go!”

“If she tries to smack you -”

“Sipa! ”

“If she tries to smack you,” you say, insistent, “tell her I’ll snatch her horns off!”

“You’re not even half her size,” Pheres says. “You will not. Shoo! Go!”

He’s smiling, so you go.

* * *

> **3\. SMILE | 4.66 SWEEPS / 10 YEARS OLD**

The worst thing about Rmeros, you decide, is that he’s always smiling. When he’s coming back from hunting, or teaching Pheres, or even talking to Simoom, he always looks amused, with his eyes all squinted and his seedflap curled up, like he’s getting some joke no one else is hearing.

He even smiles at _you_. You hate it.

Pheres’s not big on touching you unless the two of you’re fighting: he’s always leaning and sidling and shoving you, complaining that you’re gonna knock him down until you get fed up and actually do. But he’s sitting all prim and neat by Rmeros’s feet, head leaned back so his horns are braced against his knee, and you hate that too.

Pheres wants you to be friends, though, and so it doesn’t matter how much the sight of Rmeros makes your belly churn, or makes your mouth go dry and flinty. You’ve gotta play nice. That’s the only reason why you’re standing in his van, breathing in this stuffy-ass air that smells like mold and dust, and the only reason why you don’t growl when he smiles at you, all flap and no bulbs.

He’s got a wreath of herbs hanging from his hand, and a lizard in the other. It’s dead, but it’s not burned: your dad hasn’t hunted for you for the last three perigees, so it’s still all red, fresh, not bad in the slightest. There’s even still blood dripping from it, the cherry red of the sorta critters that’re okay to kill.

“It’s very nice,” Rmeros says, the skin of his nose all scrunched.

He’s holding the lizard out like he’s afraid of it. With each little plip- _plop_ of the blood hitting the ground, his eyes go thinner.

“Congratulations on your.. hunt.” If he got any more careful, his voice’d be wearing gloves.

“You couldn’t have bled it first?” Pheres asks. A splash of blood had landed on his foot first thing, and he’s been curled up tight ever since, face wrinkled like he bit into mold.

“Why would I do that? Dummy. I’m gonna make _pudding_ out of it.”

“For you guys,” you add, fluttering your eyelashes, and Pheres perks right up.

You knew that’d win him over. He’s _always_ hungry, for all that he pretends he’s not: your pops doesn’t bring back enough food for the both of you, and he throws a fit if he thinks you’re sharing too much. And you’ve always been able to get more from the communal pot, on account of the fact your lusus’ll burn anyone that tries to stop you, but Pheres –

– well, he just eats when people give him things, for the most part.

“Well.” Rmeros gives the lizard a perfunctory shake, and then jerks his chin at you. It’s a sharp little jerk! It’s something that’d be more at home on Simoom’s knife-edge of a face than his plump one. “Thank you for showing us before you began. Pheres. Take it back to her, will you?”

Pheres unfurls in a tangle of limbs, his head tilting up even as he pushes himself off the ground. He’s in such a hurry he even forgets the desk behind him. The thwack of his horns hitting the wood’s loud enough that you flinch, your noisechutes pinning back, but though his face goes red, he doesn’t pause.

And he only just barely makes a face when he takes the lizard. “Here, Sipa,” he says. He isn’t nearly as good as hiding his voice. It’s gone all sour and terse, and you can practically hear him vibrating with the urge to drop it every time the blood drips.

When he holds the lizard out to you, you shake your head. “Put it on the table,” you demand, and he’s eager enough to let go that he doesn’t even question you. Eager enough for that, and, well – he _always_ likes free food.

You push past Rmeros, your soundflaps up high. He’s just staring. Good! If Pheres wants you to be nice, you’ll do it – but you’ll do it _your_ way, so that everyone can see. If Rmeros wants to gawk at how nice you’re being, well, _good._

“Go wash your hands, dude, you’re being gross.” The trick to bullying Pheres, you’ve found out, is just ordering him to do what he wants to do 'til he thinks everything you say’s gotta be like that. Alsike says it’s on account of the fact he’s a creature of habit.

Whydah says he’s just _biddable_ , and they don’t say it even half as fond. “And get me a pot,” you add. “A pot, and a - a -”

“A knife! I don’t think we have cardamom, Sipa.” He steps daintily around the blood you’re tracking, reaches under the counter to pull out a drawer you didn’t even know was there. “Good! Cardamom’s _gross,”_ you say, wrinkling your nose.

He places the pot on the stove, then starts rummaging through a different drawer that’s filled with little vials. (What does anyone even need that many vials for?) “Well, it doesn’t matter if you _like_ it. We have to _have_ cardamom.” He’s so confident, like he’s ever cooked a single thing in his whole life. “And the ginger! Rmeros, do you have any ginger? Well, I guess we’ll find it later. Ah, you’ve never made pudding, right? First, we start with the flour –”

“ _We_ ,” Rmeros says flatly, “aren’t doing anything. Pheres, what in heaven’s sake are you doing? Put that down.”

You’d found a knife all hidden away in a block of wood. Pheres’s stilled in the corner of your eye, too far to see his expression, but near enough you can see his face go even brickier.

Whydah’s right. He _is_ biddable.

Well, you aren’t! The first swoop of the knife takes off the head, easy as anything for all that the blade skids on the counter. (It leaves a scratch in the wood. Who makes counters out of wood?) Pheres jumps at the clang as it strikes the counter. Worse yet, he trills at you, with a quick, furtive step forward. You don’t pay him any mind.

You aren’t a wriggler to be minded. And you’re not doing anything _wrong._

You’re lifting your arm for the second swing when something closes around your wrist.

Rmeros’s hand is hot, hot, hot, hotter than Pheres’s skin, hotter than even the stuffy air in the van. And his grip is tight. When you try to wrench free, you can’t get so much as a wriggle off. “Hey,” you protest, twisting. “Let go!”

He takes the knife with his other hand and places it gingerly on the counter. He isn’t even half as gentle with you. His grip on your wrist is starting to hurt! You can practically feel your bones _creaking,_ and _shifting_ , like they might just up and break, and all he’s doing is holding still.

“That’s enough of this,” he says. It’d be better if he was flat, or annoyed, or anything, but he’s just.. _talking,_ bland and brisk, like Pheres isn’t wide-eyed and terrorstruck behind him. “If you want to _make a mess of a kitchen_ , do it in your own damn hive. I’m told you have one? Somewhere?”

“And _no,_ Pheres, I do not have _ginger._ Or _cardamom. Honestly.”_

“Leggo! I’m not making a mess!” You’re going shrill. Your wrist _hurts,_ and he’s not letting go, no matter how much you thrash. “I’m making _pudding,_ so _let GO of me,_ that’s, like, like, what people _do –”_

“It’s true,” Pheres interjects, so quiet you can barely hear him. “It’s.. she’s trying to be nice.”

“Bringing _dead vermin_ into my hive and tracking _blood_ across my _floor_ is nice? You people have such _unusual_ standards.” _Now_ he’s gone flat. “If the two of you want to create a mess, then you can do it in her space, on your own time.”

“Not in _mine.”_ He pauses, glances at Pheres. “Ours,” he amends, and oh! His voice is so, _so_ flat, flatter than the racks they stretch the skins out on, but Pheres brightens like that little aside’s a _kindness._

Like Rmeros doesn’t have you by the fucking wrist.

That’s fine. If Rmeros won’t let go, and Pheres’s turned traitor, you’ll just help yourself. So you pin your noiseflaps, tensing your entire body, and then you lunge up, sinking your teeth into his arm.

The scream is gratifying. You’ve wanted to do this since the first time his rotten ping woke you up in the middle of the day. It’s been a long time coming! The scream is gratifying, but the way the world goes white when his free hand slams into your central struts is _not_. He lets go of your wrist and you let go of his arm at the same time, and momentum sends you skidding over into the desk. The edge digs into your side, hard as any knife, an unfortunate match to the way your poor struts are throbbing.

Your mouth is full of iron. When you spit on the ground, it’s brick red.

Pheres’s looking between the two of you, wide-eyed, like he can’t figure out which one he wants to help. Rmeros’s arm is bleeding and his face is pale like a mask, his hands curled in tight. And you’re hissing like your broken teakettle, horns down in case he decides to try and hit you again.

(Try. Let him try! You’ll _rip him apart._ )

“I told you to let _go,”_ you snap, soundchutes still down, your chest a white-hot pain. “I told you –”

“Pheres,” Rmeros says. There’s a shake to his voice, just the barest hint of a quaver. It takes you a moment to realise it’s a warning rasp. “Get her the _fuck_ out of here.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Pheres’s grabbing hold of your arm before you can even process it, tugging you along, careful to keep him between you and Rmeros. It’s only when you’re nearly at the door that he stops, looks back. You can’t see his face, with him blocking you like this. (Like he could _stop_ you, if you wanted to take another bite out of his dumb moirail.)

You don’t _need_ to see his face, though, when you can hear his voice.

“Ah. Rmeros! Are you sure – do you want me to get you a bandage? Some wraps? Alsike has lots,” he says, worried. “They’re free!”

“What I want,” his moirail says, flat, “is the both of you _out of here_ before I _cull you.”_

* * *

 

> **4\. MOVING ON OUT | 4.68 SWEEPS / 10 YEARS OLD**

“Ghosts aren’t real, Sipa,” Pheres says, like you’re simple. “When a troll dies, they’re _dead.”_

The smile he’s got plastered on is as fake as the yellow of Myljis’s symbol - everyone knows she’s practically orange, no matter how much lemon she slathers on her skin.

Tonight, you managed to catch him just as he was leaving the river. That’s all he ever is anymore: he crawls in the 'coon after you go to sleep and he wakes up before you do, and if he’s not at Rmeros’s hive, he’s off in the damn water. His braids are still wet. He stinks of salt.

“They are! Whydah _says_ –” you protest, but he cuts you off with a laugh.

“Since when have _you_ believed what Whydah says?”

Since he stopped being around, you’re tempted to say. But then he’ll just get mad, and it’s not nearly as fun as it used to be to wind him up now. Used to be that you could say the right thing, he’d take a swing at you, and that’d be it. You’d be on the ground, practically scrapping for your life!

Or at least, so he wouldn’t ground your face in the ground and lecture you on being civilized.

Now-a-days, he just skips straight to the lecture, and if you pop him, he just gets mad. He shouted at you last time 'til you cried, and he’s never done that, not even when you cracked his horn once when you were both little.

So you don’t say anything. You just curl your lip at him, and he huffs right back at you, almost like he used to. “Whydah’s superstitious and silly,” he says, with a quick, nervous glance around to make sure they can’t hear. They like to pop out of all the dark corners when you’re least expecting it. “There aren’t any ghosts in the river! I’ve been all over it, and I’ve never seen anything down there, except bones and kelp and clutter.”

“There aren’t even any fish! How’s a ghost going to survive down there, if there’re no fish?”

“It’s a ghost, stupid. Why’s it need fish?”

“Well -”

“Rmeros says,” you drone with him, but while he goes red, he doesn’t stop talking. “Ghosts are a silly thing for a person to believe in. Once you’re dead, you’re dead, and that’s that.”

There’s something hesitant in that, though. It takes you a moment, then you whistle, impressed. “He’d better not let Alsike hear that.”

Ancestor worship is big in your hivestem. All the older kids do it, even Simoom, though he grumbles something fierce about wasting good woolbeasts by burning it all up. “'cause he can’t be a part of the stem if he doesn’t believe.” You don’t, but that’s just because ancestors are silly. Who cares what a couple of dead fogeys think? It’s not 'cause you think they’re not real, like some of the trolls.

Whydah doesn’t think they’re real, and that’s why they spend most of their time out hunting. Everyone gets nasty mean when you don’t fit into the flock.

Maybe Pheres’s remembering that, because he’s quiet even longer this time, like he’s turning over the words in his head. “Alsike already knows,” he finally says, careful like each sound’s glass.

“And she didn’t kick 'em out?” You let your flaps pin down in disbelief, and his face goes bricky. “I don’t believe it,” you announce. “You’re fibbing!”

“I’m not,” he protests.

“If she knew, she wouldn’t let him be a part of the hivestem.”

“Maybe he doesn’t _want_ to be a part of the hivestem, Sipara.”

It’s your turn to go quiet.

Pheres lifts his chin. “It’s not like this is a big hivestem,” he says, and if each word’s glass, now he’s talkin’ like he’s afraid he’ll break them. “His is better! He’s from _Dimašqa,_ did you know? He said his hivestem is bigger than our entire plot, and it’s one of the smaller ones. And no one even has to work there, not unless they want to.”

“Can you imagine that?”

You try to picture a hivestem bigger than yours. How tall would that be? A dozen stories, reaching up into the sky - it’d be like the orchard, maybe, but with hives on every end, trolls blocks on each spreading branch.

You can’t picture it. You might as well picture having fins. But Pheres apparently can. “So he doesn’t need our hivestem. He’s got his own, and it’s lovely,” he says for you, when you don’t answer. He’s been wringing out his hair, but now he pauses. “And.. he said I can come see it soon. If I want to.”

It’s rare for you to be gobstopped! But the words just won’t come. Your pan is like a leaky sieve, 'except instead of draining out thoughts, it’s not even letting them in. Everytime a word appears, it pours out just as quick, 'til the only thing that’s left is a sickly kinda unease.

But he’s watching you side-long, waiting for a reply.

“.. but you aren’t,” is what you finally manage to say. It comes out as a squeak. Worse yet, it comes out as a question, and all you want to do is rip out your voicebox and start over. “Right?”

“Ah.” He lets go of his hair. It’s still dripping on the sand behind him as he folds his arms, wrapping them around himself. “Not right now!” He starts to laugh, then stops, wrinkles his nose. “Ah. That’d be _silly_. The rains are about to come, and then we won’t be able to drive very much at all. But.. in a few perigees, maybe.”

“When it’s dry.”

Everything about you right now is treacherous. If you could fight your body, you would! But your soundchutes are pinned flat and your bulbs are wide and the air’s going wavy like the sun’s about to come up. It isn’t. It’s just tears, staining everything a rheumy red, and that’s even worse.

Pheres’s gone pale and wide-eyed. He isn’t smiling anymore.

“Oh,” he says, distressed: “- oh, oh no, don’t get upset! Why are you upset?”

If you say anything, you’ll cry. So you clamp your fangs shut tight, but Pheres keeps talking. “Do you want to come?” His eyes are getting wet. He always gets upset when you get upset, and sometimes it’s fun to use that, but right now, you don’t want to cry. You just want to shut up and wait to calm down, but –

“You can come, too! I promise, I promise, Sisi, don’t _cry –”_

 _–_ he’s going to make you _talk._

"No, I can’t!“ You are _blubbering._ There’s thick orange drops rolling down your face and clouding your vision and even swiping at your bulbs with your hands doesn’t stop the tears. And Pheres’s just staring. "You’re going to _go_ and _leave me_ and I can’t come, because – because he _hates me!”_

“I won’t leave you!” Pheres steps forward, but he stops when you hiss. You don’t want him near you, not when his hands are twitching like he wants to _touch_ you. Pheres doesn’t like being touched, not 'less you’re fighting, and you don’t want to fight him right now. “I won’t leave you, and - and you’re being silly. He doesn’t hate you at _all,”_ he says, soft, like you both know it’s a lie.

* * *

> **5\. KNIVES | 4.70 SWEEPS / 10 YEARS OLD**

Everyone in the hivestem colony hates Rmeros, and that’s just the truth.

Alsike thinks he’s weird. “You don’t get pale for a _pupa_ ,” she said to you one night when you’d been helping her cook one of the big kills. “Everything’s supposed to be even, Nzi-fizzy. Can’t be even if one of you’s about to get on a ship and the other’s barely out of the _caverns.”_ Hamsin agrees with whatever Alsike says. Whydah doesn’t like him, though they’ve never said why, on account of the fact they barely say anything.

The only people that like him are Simoom, who’s a rotten old ponce with a rotten old crush, and Pheres. And Pheres doesn’t count. Pheres would like a daywalker, if it paid attention to him!

But even though everyone hates Rmeros, you’re the only one willing to do anything about it. Which is fine, ‘cause if Pheres ditching you’s taught you anything, it’s that you’re pretty great at working alone.

( _“I won’t leave you,”_ he’d said all prettily, and then he’d packed up his things and moved into Rmeros’s van. You hope he gets to that stupid city and the hivestem’s are all _dead._ )

Maybe you always had Pheres at your back before, trailing you like a dumb, gangly shadow whenever you needed to teach someone a lesson. (For stealing his shit, for making fun of your dad, for trying to sass you - there’s always a reason to rough someone up.) But it wasn’t like he was ever much help in a fight, 'cept for getting in your way if he felt you were getting too rough. He never really _helped._

So it’s not like you’re working alone at all, really, 'cause what’s changed?

Except that usually, you use this knife on animals, not tires.

Who knew that rubber was so thick? You’re having to saw through it, and even that’s barely scratching the surface. All it’s doing is making your arms ache. And your soundchute’s ache, too. The noise’s so loud, you don’t even notice when the van door pops open.

“.. what’re you doing?” Pheres’s scrubbing at his face like he’s trying not to fall asleep, eyes half-lidded, but you can hear the sound of snoring drifting out of the lookout, clear as anything. No way that big of a sound could have ever come from your reedy little hivemate: it’s gotta be Rmeros. And if he’s asleep, why isn’t Pheres?

Because his hands are wrapped tight around a steaming mug, and it smells like the stuff the older kids drink. The stuff Khirba smacks you, when you try to steal a sip.

“Is that _coffee?”_ you demand, but he’s canting his head to the side, eyes narrowed to slits.

“Is that a _knife?”_

“I asked you first!” You shove it behind your back, putting on your most quarrelsome face. “You’re not supposed to be drinking that!”

“I’ve got a lot of work to do. And no, _you’re_ not supposed to drink it. Your custodian doesn’t care what _I_ do.” He’s oozing along the side of the cart, forcing you to take a step back, pivot to keep him facing your front. And then he sparks,  just the once, and he’s behind you, grasping your wrist.

“You _do_ have a knife!” he hisses, outraged.

He doesn’t keep your wrist. He’s all bones, and while he’s fast, he’s never had the weight or strength or will to keep you: you twist free in a second, snarling loud enough to make him startle back.

There’s fury churning in your gut, eating away at your tongue. You’re doing this for him! You’re doing this for him, and all he’s doing is looking like you’ve messed up. His hands are clenched at his sides, and he’s gone all sour and pinched. “Sipara, what is _wrong with you-”_

 _“Pheres.”_ The snoring hasn’t broken, but that’s Rmeros’s voice, not sleepy in the slightest. Pheres startles again, and your ears pin back. When you look at each other, it’s hard to remember that you were just angry. You don’t want Rmeros to come outside, you with a knife in your hand and rips in his tires.

Your wrist aches.

“.. nothing,” Pheres calls back. He’s wide-eyed, but his voice barely squeaks at all. Maybe he doesn’t want him to come out, either. “It was just a squeakbeast! I’ll get rid of it.”

He takes hold of your arm, tugs. You let your feet drag, but you let him pull you along when he hisses,  "Come on!“

He leads you away from the van in quick, hurried steps. The coffee keeps sloshing into your hands, but neither of you says a word until the van is behind you, and you’re safely in the shadow of the walls. There’s holes in it where the stones have fallen out, and he curls up in one, knees drawn up right against the curve of the bedrock.

"Where’s your custodian?” he asks. When you just stare, he fixes it, peevish: “- your pops! Your _bird!_ Where’s he at?”

“Sleeping, duh. Same as always.” He’s been trying to stay awake more again, ever since Rmeros came, but he’s no good for it. “Why?”

“'cause he’s supposed to be _stopping_ you! That’s his job.”

“What d'you know about _his job?_ You don’t have a lusus,” you say, baffled, and you’re gonna say more, but Pheres _wilts._

It’s baffling. That’s the sort of thing that’s never bothered him before. You’re not being cruel: it’s just a fact, like how you haven’t any horns to speak of. He’s not supposed to get thin-lipped and _unhappy_ over it.

“I _do_ have a lusus,” he says, curling up tighter. He’s so put off he doesn’t even complain when you settle down near him, back againsnt the wall. “It’s not my fault he’s dead!”

He takes a sip of the coffee. “It’s not my fault he’s dead,” he repeats, quieter this time and peevish.

He’s never _ever_ been salty about this.

You’ve seen his weird, dead dad. You live with him! It’s impossible not to have seen him: Pheres used to keep it sitting on the edge of the coon til your thrashing tipped it in one night, and now he just keeps it around the nutritionblock. He moves it, sometimes, but it’s the same way he likes to shuffle around everything. It’s not like he actually ever _cared_ about it.

“Um.” You don’t know how to deal with him when he’s like this. A few perigees ago, you’d have started a fight, 'cause after that first slap, he doesn’t have room for anything other than getting mad. But he won’t fight back if you hit him anymore, and you don’t think you could say anything mean enough to get him spitting right now.

The way he’s acting right now, he’d just cry.

Or he’d _leave_.

You scoot down and lean in against him. Normally, he’d bolt away at this point, or kick up a fuss, or smack you 'til you moved. But he just exhales, loud and heavy like he’s pushing _all_ the air outta his lungs. Emboldened, you butt your head against his arms til he lets you rest your cheek againsnt his knee. “You’re gonna get hair in my coffee,” he grumps, but it’s halfhearted. “.. and I’m still mad at you.”

There’s a hundred things you could say! But you swallow 'em all, because fighting right now seems like an awful idea. Saying anything at all seems dumb, so you just curl in tighter against him, shouldering your way closer 'til he’s dropped his knees enough you can slide an arm around them.

Alsike will cuddle with you sometimes. Khirba, if he’s in a good mood. But Pheres never, _ever_ lets you touch him like this.

“If you want a lusus,” you say, meek, “you can have mine.”

That gets a laugh from him. Everything feels soft and strange right now, but the sound warms you. Pheres might be being strange, but his laugh’s still the same, all sharp and mean. “I don’t want yours!” he huffs. “Yours is _horrid._ ”

“Yeah, well.. why not just carry yours, then?”

“.. what, under my arm?”

“In a bag!” He’s dropped his knees. It’s a tight fit, but you climb all the way into his lap, writhing around until your face is looking at his, and your hair is getting caught on the stones. “Like, Alsike’s got lots and lots with broken bits, and all she ever does is make stuff, and she likes you, so - so you could ask her! I bet she’d make one just for you!”

It’s a brilliant idea. All of your ideas are, of course, but this one is especially perfect, because Pheres’s brightening, one watt at a time.

“It’d look _silly_ ,” he protests, but it’s half-hearted.

“ _You_ look silly! With those big dumb horns -”

“Rmeros says they’re dignified!”

“That’s only 'cause his are worse.” You grab one curly horn and give it a yank. He’s not moving. He’s not smacking you. He’s letting you sit on him and you don’t even have to _hit him_ and it feels like your entire body’s full of butterflies and bubbles all frothing to get out. “I bet if you went and hid with Simoom’s fluffbeasts, he wouldn’t even notice you were there, that’s how silly these are! And - and - and if you made your hair all big, instead of lank,  he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, even if you went up and bit him -”

“I’m not going to do that!” He jerks his head hard, twisting his horn free with a huff, and the bubbles pop all at once.

“I’d rather go gargle in the _river,_ ” he complains. But he doesn’t push you out of his lap. He doesn’t push you off at _all._

* * *

 

> **6\. THICKER THAN WATER | 4.74 SWEEPS / 10 YEARS OLD**

Pheres is at the river. He’s never at your hivestem anymore, or at the hiveblock - he doesn’t even come home to get his share of the rations you collect every week, because Rmeros thinks the food here is _disgusting_. He likes his coffee that he gets all the way from Dimasqa, and food that he bought in a different district entirely.

“A more _civilized_ district,” Pheres had whispered to you in Rmeros’s snooty voice, back when making fun of him was a thing your hivemate would still do. Now he gets mad and pinched if you talk bad about him at all, and the last time you made a joke about lamwas, he didn’t speak to you for a week.

But even though he never comes home, you always know where he is, because Pheres is always at the river.

Every time you see him on the shore, it makes you want to snatch him up. Make him move! He’s so _little_ , and the river’s so big, full of ghosts and the bones of dead kids ready to pull him in. When you were a pupa, you’d stand right here and holler and fuss until he got away from it, and you’d cry every time his head bobbed under the water. You knew he’d pop back out.

Pheres is one of the only kids that goes down to the river, him and Whydah, and it’s practically a part of 'em. If you bled Pheres, sometimes you think all that’d pour out is water and the red-pink mud. But that doesn’t mean you have to _like it._

He isn’t in the river tonight.

“Sipara,” he says, prim and strict, like he’s the voice from the schoolfeed. His feet are dangling in the water, kicking up silt and dust. If it was any other river, there’d be crocs nibbling at his walkstubs right now, but nothing in this water’s alive anymore. Sweeps and sweeps ago, some wader dumped salt in the water until everything shrivelled up and died, and it’s been that way ever since. Pheres told you that, and Whydah told him, so you know it’s gotta be true: Whydah never lies, not ever, not even when they should.

(It’s why they don’t go down to the river anymore. No point in it, they’d told you, the one time you’d asked: they’d dredged out all the stuff worth taking back when they were your age, all the trinkets left on the bones that could be sold and the horns hanging loose on their beds that could be carved into arrowheads or jewelry or caps.)

But dead or not, though, you don’t like to get near the water. You dawdle a good few feet behind him instead, feet scuffing at the dirt, like you’re just bored and not spooked at all. “What’re you doing?” you demand, petulant. “You haven’t been hive in, like, days.”

“Bennui misses you,” you add, and he laughs.

“You’re not supposed to fib. That’s rude.” He pats the ground next to him, soft at first, then insistent.

You don’t move. He’s been ignoring you! He doesn’t get to play at this now, like everything’s fine. His hands still, and then he folds them in his lap, prim as if he’d never done that in the first place.

For a second, you almost think he slouches in on himself, but nah. Pheres sits like he’s got a tree growing up his spine, just like his dumb moirail.

“I’ve been busy. Rmeros’s teaching me how to copy.” The mud squelches between your toes as you slink closer. “It takes forever,” he adds, glancing back at you. “He wants it all by hand. He says that’s the _proper_ way of doing it.”

“Copy what?” You’ve only been in Rmeros’s hive a handful of times, and never after you brought in the lizard. This is the first time you kinda regret it. You hate not knowing things. It’s a personal _affront,_ which’s one of Pheres’s stodgy words.

“Books! You saw them the first time, remember? He gets them and he writes them down and then he sells them. It’s _prestigious,“_ he says, preening, probably as much over the word as Rmeros’s silly books.

(Selling books. Who’d even _buy_ them?)

"You don’t need to sleep over there for that.”

“I can’t work around you,” he objects, squinching his face up at you. “You’d dump something on the books!”

You wrinkle your nose. “Would not!”

“You would too! Even if it wasn’t on purpose. I’ve seen your manuals.” There isn’t nothing you can say to that. You dug out all the tech books from the hive ibrary, soon as you cracked open your first grub and realised you didn’t know anything of what you were looking at. They’d been nice enough when you started, but. Well.

If you’re not spilling tea, or dropping food, then Bennui’s fighting the pages in protest to the pictures. That’s not your fault, though, but you know Pheres figures it is, so you pooch out your lip, for all he can’t see it.

But maybe he knows you’re doing it anyhow, because he laughs. “And, ah, he’s been teaching me other stuff, too! Like..”

He bites his lip, turns his head just enough to peer back at you. It’s tilted to the side, so his braids are trying their best to slip out of the twine he’s wrapped 'em in. It’s the look he uses on Alsike when he’s trying to get her to braid some of her bright yarn into his hair. “Come here, and I’ll show you!”

Reluctantly, you tromp over, stopping a breath behind him.

He makes a show of it, to lure you in closer: he lifts up his hand, shoulders angled so you just barely can’t see, and when you shuffle a little closer, he wraps his fronds in closed. He doesn’t move 'em until you’re at his side.

And then he turns to face you, each frond  curling open one at a time, slow as the water in the riverbed. He’s chewing on his lip, and he keeps peeking up at you, furtive little glances like he’s tryin’ to figure out what you’re thinking.  Then he opens it all the way, all at once.

There’s a light in the center of his palm, dim but flickering. For a moment, it brightens as he breathes in, steadies himself - and then you make a noise, delighted, and it dissolves.

“He’s teaching you to make lights,” you say, awed. Your eyes are stinging a little. It made your scalp crawl, the sight of it: white as bone, as bright and garish as if he’d held the sun in his hand. The sort of thing you’re only supposed to see if you’re dead.

It wasn’t pretty, not precisely, but there’s something tight in your chest that makes you want to see it again.

When you look up from his hand, he’s bleeding.

Only for a moment, then he takes in your wide eyes and starts scrubbing at his snout. His eyes are bright, almost as bright as the globe in his hand, and it’s a stark difference to the ruddy stain on his face. “So I don’t need a torch when I’m working,” he says, proud, like he ain’t bothered at all. “I’m not very good at it yet - or, ah, holding it, haha - but Rmeros is _amazing_ at it.”

“Rmeros can do lights! Dozen of them! Practically millions.” He’s got to be fibbing, but he sounds as proud as a fang-billed abirdination right now. (Used to be that he sounded that way talking about you. The tightness in your cavity’s got a different source, now.) “And he says I’ll be able to do it like that, too, if I just keep _practicing_ –”

“I don’t think anyone else starts bleeding over practice,” you say, flat, and his eyes dim.

“Well! Maybe nobody else is practicing the right way.” He lifts his chin, daring you to challenge him, but you don’t take it. Maybe once, it would’ve been an invitation to a real argument! A real scuffle! But nowadays, you argue too much, Pheres just _leaves._ “Rmeros says it happens to everyone, when they work hard. You just have to -” He waves his hand. “- push through it, 'til it sorts itself out.”

That’s dumb, you want to say. But you swallow the words, and you just flop down right next to him instead, shoving him with your shoulder. He goes tense, but all you do next is drop your head onto his shoulder, nestling it againsnt the curve of his horn.

(Once, you could’ve just slid your head right up againsnt his neck if he’d ever held still long enough to let you, but all his horns have been doing is growing, growing, growing, the past few sweeps. Like all the inches that ought’ve gone to his legs are going straight to his rack instead.)

“I’m _tired_ of talking about your dumb moirail,” you announce. “What’re you even doing out here?”

You can feel the rise and fall of his chest. You can feel the way he’s staying stiff as a board, like he expects you to haul off and smack him. You think he might shrug you off, he’s staying so tightly wound, but all he does is sigh. “I’m thinking. Or trying.”

“About what?” you persist.

He doesn’t answer for the longest time. It’s just your breath, his and the sound of the river lapping at the shore, with the occasional splash of his feet kicking in it.

“.. Rmeros believes in ancestors,” is what he finally says, grumpily. “If you laugh, I’ll push you in the river.”

“I’ll drag you with me!” You bury your face in his shoulder, and then in your hands on top of it.

“ _You’re laughing!_ ”

“I’m not,” you squeak, finally breaking for air. Your shoulders are still hitching. “I’m not, I promise! Don’t you shove me in there! Holy smokes. Like - like -”

Your voice is still hitching. He takes pity on you. “In all of them,” he says, pained. “In old ones. In new ones. In his own _personal_ one. I didn’t know those were a thing. Did you?”

“No! How come you know they’re real?”

There’s another long pause, but this time, you think he’s doing it on purpose, 'cause he’s watching you side-long, and there’s something a little sly in his voice when he speaks up next. “'cause he told me,” he says, lowering his voice like it’s a secret. “I asked, and he told me all about them.”

“D'you know, he thinks everyone’s got their own personal ancestor?  Not like the shared ones. Ones just for us. All of us! Even _me_.” There’s pride there, begrudging but still clear. You’ve seen the way Pheres looks at Rmeros, like his signmate’s a promise of something he’ll grow into. It makes sense he’d like the idea of his own personal ghost.

“So, what, why doesn’t he burn stuff for 'em?” Alsike had been sour on Rmeros right from the start, but him refusing to join in the burning had set her feathers all up. All the older kids participate! It’s a part of what makes you all a hive, and not just a cluster of kids all jostling for space.

“He said that’s just superstitious nonsense.” Pheres rattles off the word with ease, like it ain’t longer than any good word should be, and he pays no mind to the way you grimace. “He thinks it’s just a thing that shows how you’re gonna be.”

“It’s all in the _blood._ He’s got it, and I’ve got it, and our ancestors had it, too, and that’s why we’re all the same. _”_ And he doesn’t sound shamed about the pride in that, not at all. “Or, ah. That’s what he says!”

“So what about me? Do I have one?“

He’s slouched forward, gradually, unbending like he ain’t even noticed. Relaxed against you like the two of you are friends, and like you’re not just another person he’s been ignoring. (Another person he thinks he needs to _fight.)_

But now he stiffens. “What _about_ you?”

“What about my ancestor, you danderfluff?” you demand, nudging him. You don’t know why he’s gone all uncomfotrable on you again, but it’s frustrating, after you just spent all this time getting him to loosen up. “You got one! Do I got one?”

“Um.”

He’s so bad at lying. “Well? Did you ask him? You asked him, right?”

“.. yes?” He exhales slowly. He isn’t looking at you: he’s staring at the water, and his feet have gone still. “I asked him about yours. Because if I have one, and he has one, then you ought to have one, too. It.. ah, it wouldn’t be right, otherwise.”

“So what he’d say?” You shouldn’t be pushing, maybe. Every bit of him’s screaming you ought to not ask, but if he won’t come out and say it, you won’t pay it any mind.  If it’s your ancestor, then it’s yours to know.

“.. he said blood’s like water,” Pheres says, miserable, “and that means sometimes, it’s just bad.”

* * *

> **7\. GUIDANCE | 4.78 SWEEPS / 10 YEARS OLD**

“He thinks I’m dirty,” you wail, burrowing your face in Alsike’s lusus. “And so does Pheres!”

Simoom’s lusus might be the prettiest, but Alsike’s hoofed hopbeastmom is basically just perfect: she lets you scoop her up with no more protest than a sleepy blink.

“I hate him,” you tell her, burrowing your face in her headfluff. All around you, the tanning pits stinks of acid and burnt flesh, but Alsike takes good care of her mum, brushes her out and washes her every day. She smells like the same oil Alsike uses when she braids hair, familiar enough to make you ache. “But if I cull him, Pheres’ll cull me. I don’t know what to do!”

She bleats at you. You shake her. “I can’t _do_ that!”

"Can’t do what, sugargrub?”

Alsike is stripping off her leather gloves and shrugging off her apron. She’s not the head tanner, but she’s in line for it: everyone knows that when Cendol gets conscripted, she’ll take over the tanning pits and be in charge of everyone that works in 'em.

Right now, though, she’s just another tanner, and that means she can take the time to talk to you and Pheres, when you dare to come near. The pits stink. You’re going to smell like this for whole _nights_.

“I need to talk to you,” you blurt out, spinning to face her. Alsike’s lusus snuggles closer to you, rumbling away in that weird way that means she’s happy.

It’s a good thing your pops is asleep at the hive, or else he’d get jealous.

“You do, Nzi? You sure? 'cause I thought for certain you were here to talk to Simoom.” Alsike’s smiling, fond as a lusus, and this is why you don’t like her. Pheres is over the moon for the way she dotes on him, but that’s just him being Pheres: he’s perfectly content being someone’s pet, if they give him a pretty enough bow.

“No!” You don’t hiss at her, because Alsike isn’t like Whydah. To be fair, she isn’t like Majlis, either. She won’t switch you, but a smack isn’t much better. “I don’t wanna joke! This is important!”

“Oh, well, if it’s important…” But she’s eyeing you like she’s taking you seriously, at least, even if it does take her forever to put away her things.

Alsike’s a flatscan like you, and the hivestem isn’t built for the likes of either of you. Soon as he got big enough to realise what yellow meant, Simoom offered her a hiveblock down in the basement, where it’s cooler, and easier to get down to. But she’d said no. Her hiveblock’s all the way up on the third floor, halfway up the stem, and she liked it just fine, for all that getting up there’s a matter of climbing up ropes, down the ladders, jogging across the roofs and across the hand-holds. Alsike takes her mum after the first climb, but you’re still sticky with sweat by the time you make it up to her hiveblock.

Alsike’s hiveblock’s like you and Pheres’s, save there’s no hole in the wall to your little closet of a block. She’s got the same hammocks near the window, the same sliver of counter and cupboards, a 'coon in one corner and a door to an ablution in the other. If it weren’t for the fact her roof’s so much lower, and there’s so much junk on the ground, you might’ve thought she’d taken you back to your hive.

But there’s so much junk. You step on a bag of chips, and it crinkles. “You’re gonna get bugs,” you announce unhappily, dragging yourself into the hammock.

“You wanna clean, Nzi?” She’s bringing over two glasses of water, and she sets it carefully in your hands. “'cause in that case, I’ll get you a bag. But I thought you wanted to talk.”

Pheres is Alsike’s troll. When he was little, she offered to take charge of 'em, make sure his hair didn’t end up full of nits and he wasn’t hauling disease back to the hive. She even used to bring him food, 'fore you got old enough to hunt for you and him and he got clever enough to filch without getting caught.

He adores her. But you don’t like her, not at all, and the stickiness of your distaste is making your speechfrond feel like stone.

But you gotta talk. Alsike’s piling with Simoom, and Simoom’s in charge of everything. When he hollers, folks listen - and if anyone can knock Rmeros out of your hivestem, it’s him.

So you talk.

“- and he wants to put me in a bag, and _drown me in the river!”_

At some point, you put down your glass all carefully in the hammock, and then you’d started pacing. It makes it easier to talk, somehow, get out all of this frustration and anger, 'cause you certainly can’t take it out on Alsike. Still, you wish you could! Your chin’s tucked down and your horns are up, and if you thought she wouldn’t smack you silly for it, you’d be scratching them on the wall just to get the itch out of them.

“He’s not going to drown you, pupa,” Alsike says, soothing, and you whirl on your heel to hiss at her.

“Duh! I’d, like, rip him in half if he tried!”

Alsike’s mouth goes pinched like she’s trying not to laugh. Slap or no, you give her the nastiest look you can muster. “And I don’t _care_ if he wants to,” you snap. “He’s awful and I hate him and I wish he’d _try!_ But he keeps telling Dys things, and - and -”

You don’t cry. You fell head-first out of one of the orchard-trees once when Alsike had passed under and startled you, and you’d gashed your forehead right open in the process. You’d bled and bled, and Pheres had screamed like you were going to die, and it’d felt like it. But you didn’t cry!

You aren’t going to cry now, no matter how much your eyes are stinging. “He’s gonna make him _hate me,”_ you say, or you try. It comes out as a wail, and you grab hold of your hair, pulling it hard in front of your face.

You’re not going to cry. If you say it enough times, you _won’t._

“Oh, pupa.” Alsike’s being gentle, and if you hate Rmeros, right now, you hate her too. “Is _that_ what you’re worried about?”

“No! It’s -” She thinks you’re being a wriggler. She thinks you’re being a dumb, jealous pupa, and maybe you are, but that isn’t what’s important right now, is it? So you take a breath, scrubbing at your face with your headfluff, and if the world’s a little orange when you open your eyes, you’re just gonna ignore it.

“He’s telling Dys things! And they’re all wrong. And he keeps getting different, in - in a really bad way. He’s _unhappy_.” She isn’t looking anything but sympathetic. Alsike helped him when he was little and small and alone, and you thought she’d help him now, but he’s not any of that anymore, is he?

He’s not even her pet anymore. He’s Rmeros’s, and his dumb moirail hasn’t even brought out a bow.

“His face bleeds whenever he uses his sparks,” you say, desperate, and finally, she looks concerned.

“Every time?”

“Every time! And he thinks it’s normal!”

She goes quiet at that. It’s suddenly hard to breathe, because her brow’s gone all furrowed, and she’s biting her lip like she’s thinking. Simoom’s the only one who can tell Rmeros to get out, but he loves Rmeros, and he hates Pheres. If he thought Rmeros would strip him down and sell him for parts, he’d probably give him  an entire hivestem _suite._

But if Alsike asks - if Alsike says something to him -

“Nzi, dear,” she says, “have you tried speaking to him? They’re signmates. Maybe it is normal for _their_ psionics. I’ve seen stranger things…”

Your face must fall. “They’re moirails. They know best. But don’t worry, sugargrub,” she says, gentle as anything. “I’ll speak to Dys for you.”

* * *

> **8\. KNOWLEDGE | 4.98 SWEEPS / 10 YEARS OLD**

If the sun doesn’t kill you, Rmeros’s stupid lusus will.

Every time she exhales, moisture beads on your throatstem, and her head bobs, making her feelstrands skitter across her skin.

Every time you inhale, you get the stench of rotting meat, heavy enough that you can taste it.

You’ve seen the smaller lusii before play with the mice and birds in the court. They’ll pin them and bite them and break their wings, and when they start to get bored, they’ll let them go free.

And then they’ll eat them.

Well, she’s got you on the ground, her mitts digging into the meat of your rotationropes, and you think she’s past the point of playing.

When the door of the motorcart creaks open, you don’t even bother looking. It’s probably just Rmeros again, back to gloat or whatever the fuck he does. He’d seen you outside the van, with his mum’s teeth on your shoulder like a warning and the rock on the ground, and he’d fucking _laughed_ \- and then just went inside, like that’s okay.

You’re part of a hivestem! No one lets their lusii attack each other, because that’s the rules.

No eating the lusii: no eating their fucking kids.

(But Rmeros isn’t a part of the hivestem, is he? He’s always made sure of that.)

But the footsteps are all _wrong_ for Rmeros: he’s big and he walks like it, with galloping steps that send dirt flying, but this is all pitter-patter in comparison. And maybe the roarbeast notices, because she pauses from where she’s nuzzling at your throat, her lip curled enough that you can feel the press of her fangs.

(You’d just wanted to put a rock through his window. His mum wasn’t supposed to be here! His mum is _never_ here.)

Her ears flick once, twice - then they snap back as a dark hand cracks her straight across the head.

“ _What_ ,” Pheres hisses, “do you think you’re doing? Get off of her!”

You can see dusty feet out of the corner of your eye, but you can’t see him proper. You don’t need to: you can hear the impact of him hitting her again, the sharp crack of a hand hitting fur.

When she growls - a deep, rumbling sound that makes her entire body shake, and her claws sink into your skin - he snarls right back. If you tilt your head, you can just barely see him, throwing one twiggy shoulder into hers like it’ll do anything but give her an ache.

 _“Move,_ you stupid cat!”

It takes you a moment to realise she actually is. There’s pain shooting up your legs as her tail lashes against them, but more important is the way she sinks into your shoulders - and then the weight evaporates all at once as she bounds over and off of you.

You’re scrambling up and backwards as soon as you can. Your body is screaming like someone’s driving iron into their poor hoofbeasts heels, but you can breathe, and Pheres is right there, fussing.

Rmeros’s mum is sitting only a few feet off, watching both of you with slit eyes and a curled lip, but he isn’t paying her any mind. “Sipa! Sipa sipa _sisi_ \- are you okay? Did she hurt you?” he’s saying instead, hands flitting across your face, tilting it up and to the side, checking your neck -

\- brushing against the browning skin of your shoulders  -

There’s snarling. It only when Pheres jerks back, his eyes bright with alarm, that you realise it’s coming from you.

You’ve bit him before. There’s ragged white lines on his arms where you’ve sunk your teeth in and held, scrabbled and scratched until there was red in your mouth or until a fist hit your horns, or a foot landed in your gut. You see him remembering that in the wideness of his bulbs, in the way that they flick down towards your teeth, but you can’t stop growling, because everything hurts.

Then he hisses at you. _“Stop it,_ ” he snaps, sliding in close, knocking one bony shoulder under your arm. He’s emanating that familiar warmth, and it’s painful and soothing all at once. “I know it hurts, Sisi, but you’re _not_ going to bite me, so just calm down.”

There’s needles in your shoulders, sparks of pain climbing down your arms like bugs under your skin. Pheres is moving, and you can’t seem to remember to walk with him, so he’s mostly just dragging you, his mouth a thin slash.

You’re still growling.

But you don’t bite him.

The sky is purple by the time the two of you finally make it back to the hivestem.

“I didn’t think you were gonna come,” you say later. There’s bandages around your shoulders, wrapped triple tight and slathered in all the sterilisation fluid that Pheres could find. You’re lying in the recuperacoon, your chin resting on the edge, and sopor and exhaustion’s making you sleepy: it’s hard to talk, but you make yourself form the words anyway.

Pheres is curled up by your coon, his knees all tucked in and wrapped up in that way that means he’s thinking. When you speak, though, he jerks like you hit him, all hurt and indignation. “Of course I’d come!”

He’s barely spoken to you in nights. You let the silence sit, watching him drowsily, and you can see when that thought hits him: his face reddens and his shoulders go up.

Your tastefrond’s heavy with the words that could turn that embarrassment into his familiar, spitting rage. It’d be so easy! And you’ve always liked Pheres best when he’s forgotten to be all stiff and proper, and he’s just being him.

(You always thought he liked himself best when he was like that, too, until Rmeros came.)

But right now, the thought of him being upset just seems dumb and boring, like some wriggler’s game you’ve outgrown. It hasn’t been fun for perigees.

“You’re usually, like, sleepin’ by now,” you say, when the silence gets too much. “Like, you’re _always_ sleeping.”

“Rmeros says -” He pauses, unhappy. If he had normal soundflaps, instead of the round little nubs you can barely even see, they’d be flat. “I decided sleep is a waste of time,” he settles on instead, and that’s so _stupid_.

 _Pheres_ is so stupid. The rush of warmth that thought brings is weird, too.

You laugh, and for a moment, he looks indignant, then it smoothes out. “Don’t be a brat,” he sniffs. “Think about all the stuff you could do if you weren’t sleeping all the time.” He’s scrubbing at his arm, and then he abruptly adds: “.. Rmeros needs to _control_ his _mother_.”

He unfurls, kicking his legs out in front of them, and then he stands up, gingerly as if the name alone’s brought his stupid moirail into the room. He dusts off the front of his shirt like there’s dirt there, but there isn’t: there isn’t anything, except the oil streaks left from his braids. He’d already tied them in a day-knot.

So much for not sleeping. Pfff.

“Yeah, well, your moirail _sucks_.” It’s hard to feel het up when you’re in the sopor: it feels like the attack was perigees ago, not just, like, two hours. “If she’d eaten me –”

_“She wouldn’t have eaten you!”_

You blink at him, and the angry red of his blush deepens to something bricky. He folds his arms, like he’s trying to reign back in the outburst. “I wouldn’t have let her,” he says thinly.

“But if she had -”

“- if she had eaten you, then I - I would have told Alsike,” he says, lifting his chin. “And she would’ve taken care of it.” You both know what that means, for all that no one’s ever broke the rules while you’ve lived here. Simoom’s the overseer, and Alsike’s his moirail, and that means certain duties fall to her.

And Rmeros isn’t a part of the hivestem. He can’t be exiled. Which only leaves..

"Liar,” you say drowsily. All you want to do is duck down low in the sopor and go to sleep. The warmth’s getting to you.

Pheres’s voice has gone from thin to out-and-out reedy. “I don’t care about him as much I care about you, because - because I know you.”

You’re not feeling so drowsy now.

He looks at you sidelong through his eyelashes, like he does whenever he’s nervous. For a moment, there’s eye contact - then he breaks it, his gaze skittering up to your hair.

“I know you,” he repeats, and your breath catches.

“I know you better than anyone else, and you know me, and.. that _means_ something, doesn’t it?”

It feels like there’s flutterbugs in your digestionsack. You tilt your head to the side, letting your cheek squish flat against the recuperacoon’s edge, but it doesn’t take the feeling away: it just intensifies, like all the bugs are dancing a jig. And maybe he’s feeling that way, too, because he’s still talking, the words getting faster and faster, until he’s bubbling away like that river he likes so much.

(You _do_ know him.)

“And even if we haven’t talked all perigee - even if I never, ever saw you again, or if I leave, or even if you go off and get _ruddy_ with some _highblood_ and leave –”

You stick out your tongue, gagging, and he grimaces right back at you, laughing a little despite himself. “Even then,” he says doggedly, “I’ll still know you, and you know me, better than anyone else ever, and that’s more important than moirails, or quadrants, or - or -” He flounders, and his little bubbling ends weak. “He’s got to control his mother. It’s not _right_.”

“C'mere,” you say.

He shuffles in closer to the recuperacoon, and you kick in the sopor until you’re straight again on the edge. Leaning forward, you press your forehead against his, and he doesn’t move, even though this’s usually the point you’d bite him. It’s hitting you he’s kind of sad-looking, all gaunt cheeks and sad eyes.

How come you’ve never noticed that before?

“You’re mine,” you say, testing it out, and he doesn’t object: he just breathes out. “And I’m yours. And we’re both okay. So, like, chillax. Okay?”

Pheres doesn’t say anything: he just he huffs, pulling back. And then: “Stop hogging the ‘coon,” he says, wrinkling his nose, and scrambles in.

* * *

> **9\. KISS | 5.08 SWEEPS / 11 YEARS OLD**

Pheres spends the next week back in the hivestem, and it’s just like old times. Except nicer, in a way, 'cause the two of you aren’t always scrapping. Used to be you’d never even thought that was a problem. If anyone’d ever say the sight of Pheres wouldn’t make you want to bite him, you’d have laughed 'til you were sick.

But you haven’t wanted to smack him in ages, and before you went to sleep last night, you’d reached over and pressed your lips to his cheek.

He’d blinked at you, already half-asleep, almost all the glow gone from his eyes. He always looks moon-eyed when you catch 'em like this: all big gray blotches around little black dots, 'cause his eyes are so used to the light, they never go properly big. ”'sat for?“ he’d said, sleepy.

But pleased.

"Iunno. just 'cause,” you’d said back, nuzzling your head into the curve of his neck. The two of you’ve always shared a 'coon. When he curls his arm around you sleepily, it feels like the past few months never happened at all.

You fall asleep like that.

When you wake up, Pheres is _gone_.

He’s not in the respiteblock, he’s not in the kitchen, and by the time you notice the floor’s all sleek and shiny, yours are the only green tracks on it. He must’ve got up early to mop it, but it’s weird. Usually, he waits until you’re up.

The only time he didn’t was when he’d left to stay with Rmeros, and he didn’t come back.

You’re in a frothing fury by the time you make it down the ropes and to the ground-floor of the hivestem. It’s still early enough in the evening that the sky’s bright and no one’s really out yet: there’s the sound of voices coming over from the fields, where they like to start early, 'fore the ground gets too hard from the chill, but that’s all.

You know he isn’t down there, so you don’t even bother to stop. You do stop by the tanning pits, just in case he’s waiting for Alsike. You could forgive that! But he _isn’t._ He’s not even in the courtyard, though you even go as far as to check under the stairs. He used to slip under there, back before his horns grew in and he started getting stuck.

He isn’t there either, stuck or otherwise.

Majlis waves down at you as you slip out the gates, just to be a prat, but you don’t have time to fight with her right now. Or anyone else! If Pheres is off with Rmeros again, then that’s - you’ll have to -

 _(“- that’s more important than_ moirails, _or quadrants -”)_

\- he’s not, you decide, so it doesn’t matter.

You check anyway.

The van’s empty when you get near it, but you don’t get too close: your ears are up and pricked for any sound, and you’re tense as a wire. The bruises from his rotten lusus haven’t faded yet. They’re still aching as you try your best to see if the vans lights are on. It’s hard to tell through the tinted solar windows, but there’s no light shining out of the look-out.

And Rmeros’s lusus is nowhere to be seen.

“Pheres,” you call out, but there’s no answer.

You move on.

***

That first night after he’d met Rmeros, Pheres had been so _pleased_. He’d barely been able to sleep, even after you’d dragged him into the 'coon.

“He’s so _dignified_ ,” he’d said, delighted and fit to burst from pride. Rmeros spoke Standard like a troll from the vids, smooth and rolling and deep, like he was talking straight from his digestion sack. “D'you think I’ll sound like that? When I’m his age?”

It’d taken dunking him head-first to make him finally calm down.

With all the fuss Pheres paid him, you’d recognise Rmeros’s voice in a crowd. But you don’t have to: the only sound is the rushing of the water nearby, and the awful, gargled-rocks sound of Standard.

And the buzz of psionics.

It’s just a bother at first, but by the time you get close enough to see the figures by the shoreline, it hurts. It’s like being right next to a rumblecart when it starts, or like when the bees got loose from Khirba’s apiaries: you can feel the vibration of power going all the way from your horns to the rest of you, buzzing through your nails, setting your teeth to edge.

When you crest the hill and can finally see down the shoreline, Pheres is there. And so is Rmeros.

Every time you see Rmeros, you’re reminded how big he is. It’s never been quite as clear as right now. The hand holding up Pheres’s chin is the size of his head. The thumb keeping him in place’s as big as his nose. Rmeros himself’s like a bird in the sky, and Pheres’s his shadow: so much smaller than anything ever ought to be.

For the first time, maybe, you don’t think you can fight him. You’re big, sure, but there’s big and then there’s massive, and Rmeros is huge. He wouldn’t have to grab you to hurt you. He could just swing. You can’t fight him, but there’s no way you can leave the two of them, because you’ve never seen Pheres’s eyes this bright. It hurts to look at him: it makes your horns buzz and your eyes water, like you’re staring at a lightbulb. Like you’re staring at the sun.

That’s not _right._ Most of the kids in the 'stem are sparkplugs, but there’s only one time they ever get like _this,_ where the air’s so thick with psi, you could reach out and bite it. And that’s when they’re scrapping. Not the little kid shows, either, but the shit like the time Simoom’d caught his kismesis making time with Cendol.

But all they’re doing is sitting there.

“Pheres,” you call, and he doesn’t look up. If he and Rmeros were normal trolls, maybe one of 'em’d have flicked an flap, or tilted it. You don’t even get so much as a wiggle from their flat, round noisechutes. It’s like they can’t hear you at all.

Rmeros’s eyes are bright, too, and as you creep closer, the buzzing only gets worse.

You can feel it in your claws. You can feel it in your _fangs,_ practically taste the vibrations on your tongue. It’s like holding tar in your seedflap, heavy and thick and sticky. Like something that’ll suffocate you if you stay near for too long.

Maybe this is how they practice.

(Maybe _this_ is why Pheres keeps bleeding, because you know plenty of psionics, and none of 'em have ever shed so much as a _drop_ of blood.)

So much of your pan’s saying you ought to go, go, go. Just leave! If you interrupt, Pheres’ll be furious. (If you interrupt, Rmeros _will_ cull you this time, and save his mum the trouble.) Alsike said that moirail’s know best.

… but Pheres said you know him, better than a moirail, better than _any_ quadrant, and the thought sticks more than any tar.

You know him, and you know this can’t be good.

Only a meter away, the roar of the water’s near deafening. You approach it slowly, carefully, weighing out each step as you creep around them and towards the shore. You had the first big rain of the season a few nights ago, water enough that the river poured up the bank. The water’s gone down. The debris it left behind hasn’t.

There’s rocks the size of your fist, rounded and tumbled smooth by their journey through the water. You pick one that fits neatly into the palm of your hand. When you curl your fingers, they fit neatly over the top.

Then you whirl around and you throw it.

You’re scamping away  even before the rock leaves your hand, chin tucked, horns down defensively. Your hair is falling in your face. You can’t see between the black waves and the white glare of their psionics, but you don’t need to: you _hear_ the thunk of impact, a _crack_ that makes your stomach heave with sympathy. And then you hear Rmeros _snarl._

You grab up another rock. When you look up, the light’s have dimmed. It isn’t pleasant, not precisely, but it’s not painful to look towards them. And Rmeros’s standing up. There’s a crack in his top horn, sluggishly leaking red down his forehead. _He’s_ sluggish, like he isn’t quite there.

It doesn’t stop him from noticing you. The fact your rumblereeds are rattling so hard you’re shaking makes you hard to ignore.

“Nzinga’s,” he says, slow and displeased, like it’s the worst kinda marvel. “Why is it always a fucking Nzinga?”

Perigees and perigees ago, Pheres said you ought to hit Simoom so he couldn’t use his psionics. And so you threw so that Rmeros can’t, either.

You’re not expecting that he doesn’t even _try._

He’s bigger than you, and he’s got a longer reach. Two steps closes the distance between you, before you even have a chance to respond. Then he hits you. Rmeros’s hand’s nearly as big as your head. It catches you right across the face, nails tearing. If you’d stayed stiff, it would’ve taken your head clean off.

You go limp instead, and it sends you flying.

The ground’s hard when you hit it. It’s hard and it hurts, but you’re still alive, so you scramble to your feet, pumpbiscuit racing. (The world feels kind of lopsided. He hits like a goddamn _tree._ ) Rmeros’s gaining again, quick as anything, looking properly peeved for the first time you’ve known him.

You throw the second rock.

When you were a baby, Bennui had brought you a knife from the hivestem’s stores. It’d been dull and old and rusty, and hunting had been horrible. He’d go out, find you something, and burn it. Then he’d leave it for you to finish off.

Killing something with a blunt blade is _torture._

By the time you were old enough to be allowed into the stores yourself, you’d learned about the power of a stone. Every bodies nothing but skin and giblets and the pieces holding them together. Throw a rock just right, hit those spots, and things just fall apart.

It works well on rabbits and deer, and it turns out it’s true for trolls, too.

Rmeros doesn’t crumple so much as he _staggers_. One knee hits the ground with a thunk. Then the next. Then his palms, but you’re not paying attention to that. There’s more rocks near you.

Once, you’d figured you’d rip him apart. But right now, you just want him _down._ And once he is, you’ll – you’ll –

– you’ll figure it out, because behind him, Pheres is wailing.

You sprint over, veering wide around Rmeros. (He’s making sounds, too, gross keening pity noises. The second rock was much pointier than the first.)

When you see Pheres, your pumpbiscuit nearly stops. He’s all curled up just like his signmate, knees tucked in, hands cradling his face. He’s wailing high and throaty like he’s the one hurt.

“Pheres,” you say. Your knees hit the ground. You turn him over, prying his fingers away from his face, but there’s no blood from his forehead: just some steadily dripping from his snout, but that’s no reason for him to be wailing. His eyes are still bright. Too bright, and it hurts to look at them. So you don’t. You reach down instead, mopping away the blood on his face and scrubbing it off on your breeches. “Pher, Pher, why - shh. Shoosh!”

He doesn’t shoosh. And you don’t know what else to do, so you pap him.

“You’re fine. Shoooosh. You’re fine. I promise!” You keep sneaking glances over your shoulder, but Rmeros isn’t moving. He’s gone still, though he’s still making those _noises._ (This is the point you’d cull a rabbit, but you left your knife at home, and your pan’s still scrambling for a different solution.) Pheres, on the other hand, is finally quieting.

His eyes are dimming, so you keep petting his face. The skin of your fronds is catching on his skin, and you’re leaving trails of mud, but you don’t care. Maybe he doesn’t either, because his breath hitches, and then he stops wailing, the sound dying off with a sickly little sob.

“Pher –?”

“He was in my _brain,”_ he says, hitching over the words, and you make a decision.

***

You make Pheres help. You don’t regret that.

Rmeros’s not dead, when you push him into the water.

You don’t regret _that_ , either.

What you do regret is that Pheres keeps _crying._

And what you do regret is that neither of you thinks to check the van, and see where Rmeros’s mother is, before it’s too late.

* * *

> **10\. SCRATCH | 5.3 SWEEPS / 11 YEARS OLD**

She doesn’t kill you, but you don’t realise it for weeks.

The first few nights, it’s just pain, pain, pain, and Pheres’s worried eyes above you. He cries on you once, sad and squelchy and making all sorts of horrible noises, like his airsacs are straight up gonna fall out and burst, but you can’t keep your eyes open to tell him to calm down. You can’t even get words out of your soundchute: your wordmuscle is thick and heavy in your seedflap, and it feels like there’s wool on your face, keeping all your sounds in.

But you try anyway. The hours blur together. The van’s hot, too hot, and you can’t seem to sleep, but all you do is sleep: you take a breath and blink, and the sun’s shining down from the look-out in murky rays, where it was all gloom a moment afore.

One day, you blink, and when you open your eyes, you’re feeling better.

Pheres is asleep right up against you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, arms wrapped tight around you like you’re his lusus. Compared to the heat you’ve been feeling, had crawling under your skin like the worst kinda worm, he’s been cold - but now, he’s sweat-hot, fever-hot, and the sticky damp of his skin’s too much to deal with. “Move,” you whine, and you try to shove him. You’re not in the 'coon, for some reason.

Your arm is all numb, like you slept wrong, so you use the other.

The instant your palm touches 'em, he’s on his feet and skittering away, even before his eyes are all the way open. He’s too tired to even spark at you: he just curls his lip, shoulders up and eyes slit, afore he realises it’s you.

And then his eyes pop open all at once.

He does cry on you, this time, and it’s gross, but you let him.

Pheres wants to curl up right against you, bony points digging into all of your fleshy ones, but you whine and whine 'til he settles on the ground below the platform instead. He rests his chin on the edge of the soft bit, and peering up at you with that big ol’ scentnozzle, he looks like a barkbeast from the vids, all sad-eyed and hopeful.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good,” you say, 'cause what else can you say, when he’s looking at you like that? You hurt all over, like you’ve been in a fight. (And you were: with the lusus, then with the fever. You’ve seen the ways kid thrashed back at the hivestem, like sommat was beating 'em black and blue.)

He brightens. “Oh, good,” he says, fervent, like someone’s taken a weight off of his back. His eyes are red, red, red, rimmed with his blood along the bottoms and with the little blotches of burst veins in 'em. If he’s been sleeping much, then you’re mad as a tower of bees. “I’m so glad! I’m so, so, _so_ glad - I tried all the medicine in his cabinets, but I couldn’t find none - _any_ , I couldn’t find _any_ that’d work right, all the labels were saying things that weren’t right at all, so I had to go get a mediculler, and d'you know, d'you know these hivestems are too small for a mediculler?”

“Too small! They just -” He’s straightened up, and his hands are flitting in the nervous little gestures he does. But now he clasps them together, wringing them in a way that’s gotta hurt. “They don’t take care of people if they get hurt,” he says unhappily. “If they think they’re _unsalvagable._ So I had to drive all day to get to one that did.”

“But she fixed me,” you say, reaching out. Your arm’s still asleep! No matter how much you jerk it, it doesn’t want to move, or do nothin’ but tingle, so you harrumph, shift your whole body over so you can swat his hands apart. “So, like, it’s cool.”

He’s not wringing his hands. He ought to look calmer. But he’s going pale, pale as the tile under him at your words. “She.. mostly fixed you,” he says, hesitant, and something in your gut drops. “She got the fever down! And she pulled the infection out. She had psionics, you know, the healing sort, so she could just -” He spins his hand in a quick, jerking motion, that you have no idea what it could even mean. “She said there ain’t nothing else - there wasn’t anything else she could do, past that. I’m sorry.”

“What’re you sorry for?” The room’s spinning all around you, but you’re still struggling to sit up, because something’s wrong. Pheres’s gone from looking nearly calm to on the verge of tears again, his lips pinched tight like that might stop him from bawling. “What’s - oh, goddamnit. Why’s it still asleep?”

You can shrug your shoulder. That’s not asleep, and awkwardly, trying your best to keep your arm out of the way, you sit up. “You let me lie on it all day, or what?” you grump at him. “I can’t feel a damn thing in this stupid hunk of meat –”

“She tried to fix it. She did her best,” he says, unhappily, and tells you the truth.

You don’t break anything.

Later, you’ll be very proud of that.

***

“It’s a good thing we left, huh? 'cause I wouldn’t have been able to climb shit. I might’ve fallen and breaken my damn neck.”

“Language,” Pheres murmurs.

It’s been a whole perigee since your fever died down, and you learned about your arm. Pheres hasn’t let you leave the cart since then.

He hasn’t let you drive, either, so all you do is sit righ tyour nose pressed up againsnt the viewing panes, watching the desert pass you by. You’ve been driving for days and days now Not on the main road, where people are always looking askance at your big ol’ rattle-truck, but on the smaller ones that wind through the plains and the trees and skirt right along the shadow of Kuikiro’s treeline. Pheres figures it’s safer, farther away from anyone else.

The two of you don’t talk about your hivestem, or Rmeros, or anything much at all. Pheres is too flip: he snaps at you, then jokes, and all of his jokes fall flat. He gets uncomfortable when you get too energetic, and he cries when you’re tired, like you’re only half a second from dying on him again.

It’s a miserable ride, and worse is the fact he’s keeping you penned in like a brooding cluckbeast.

He drops the basket on the table. There’s eggs, the crisp, transluscent white that probably means they came from someone’s lusus. The end of a bread loaf. Fruit, and…

There’s blood on Pheres’s lip. “It’s nothing,” he says when he sees you looking. “Don’t worry. I got some food, didn’t I?”

“I told you to get meat,” you huff, looking away. If you ask how he got banged up, he’ll just play it off. If he’d let you out of the cart, you wouldn’t let anyone rough him up, 'cause if _you’re_ not allowed to, why the hell’s anyone else?

And you’re his moirail. You told him you were his moirail, all the way back, when his face was ruddy and before Rmeros’s mum came out, and you hadn’t lied. Keeping him from getting roughed up is supposed to be your _job._

But he won’t let you do it. He won’t let you _out_ , and you’ve run your voice raspy with the asking.

“Meat’s expensive, Sipa.” The two of you’ve shoved as many as the books as could fit down in the storage hutch, but there’s still trays of 'em on the counters, on the table. He has to push them to the side to start unpacking the food. “We don’t need it. I got nuts, see?”

“ _You_ don’t need it, because you’re not _broken_.” You can’t see his face, but his ears go red, and he droops a little againsnt the table.

You’re not being kind, but you know by now he won’t say nothing. And you’re not being fair, but by now, you just don’t _care_. (Fair isn’t a thing, not when you’re the one who got _ruint.)_ “But whatevs,” you say, bouncing to your feet. Bennui stirs on top of the recuperacoon, where he’s been sleeping. Because there’s no time for sulking, not when an opportunity just struck you.

“Me and Pops can hunt us up something, and it won’t cost nothing at all!”

“You can’t do that.” Pheres looks back at you, frowning.

“Why? We’re out in the woods! I’m not gonna trot off into the jungle, you big _baby_ ,” you say, grabbing hold of one of the long-sleeved shirts. You’d long cut off the legs on your pants, on account of the fact it’s so hot, but sleeves’ll give you some protection, if something goes after your arms. “Don’t worry! I’ll get something good, too.”

“You like hopbeast, yeah? Can’t, like, make it fancy like Alsike did, but I bet I can find one out there –”

When you turn, Pheres is standing in the doorway, his face pale. “You can’t go outside, Sipa,” he says again, sharp and slow like you’re simple. “It’s not _safe_.”

You stare at him. His face’s going more ruddy, and he looks down and away. “Why wouldn’t it be safe?” you ask, squinting at him. He’s skirted around the question, when you threw it at him in the past. Danced and played with it, like not sayin’ it changes anything at all.

He opens his mouth.

(“Because it’s _dangerous_ ,” he said last time, like you didn’t get _mauled_ in this _damn cart.)_

“Because you’re _injured_ ,” he says now, waspish, spitting it out all at once. “You’re injured and people’ll take advantage of that. Look, if you want meat so badly, why don’t you have Bennui get it? He’s already getting up!”

Your pops is. You hear the rustle of feathers behind you, the slinking-shuffling move that means he’s getting up, and then the flap of wings. Pheres’s got one of the windows cracked, just wide enough for your pops to slip out, but not big enough for anything to get in. It creaks now. If you looked, you’d probably see your lusus slinking his feathery butt out.

You don’t look.

“I’m perfectly fine,” you snap, scowling at Pheres. Your arm aches, but no, it doesn’t: it’s just your pan, saying it ought to ache, 'cause you can’t really feel nothing in it.

“You are not.” He lifts his chin. “Don’t be silly. Here, I got you something, too.” He digs around in the basket. You hadn’t taken a good look inside. There’s just food, and what d'you care about food?

But he shifts the eggs and the loaf, the fruit, and he pulls out a larva, small and fat and glistening with something wet. It blinks its many eyes at you and yawns, showing off a tooth-lined seedflap. “It’s old tech,” he says doubtfully, “but she said you might be able to program it to do something interesting –”

He’s holding it out to you, and you slap it out of his hands.

Pheres jerks back, eyes wide, his horns hitting the cabinet with a thump hard enough to shake the books. He drops the grub. There’s a snap as it hits the ground, a high-pitched squeal, and then it races off – somewhere.

You’re not looking at it. You’re watching Pheres, who’s got his horns down like he wants to fight, but who’s damn near cowering. It’s stupid. He’s stupid, and awful, and –

“Well!” He looks down at the piles of things where it might’ve hidden, and his voice’s brittle. “There just went twenty caegars.”

“I don’t want your stupid grub,” you snap. “What’s that supposed to mean? People’ll take _advantage_?”

He doesn’t say anything. There’s something hot and unpleasant churning in your gut. He’s right, something in the back of your pan keens, he’s right and you’re cullbait and if you leave, someone’ll knock your head clean off just for the audacity of existing –

– but the rest of your pan’s just frothing, furious at the indignity of this, because he might be right, but he’s wrong, too. “I can defend myself! And I’d defend you too, bulgemunch, if you’d let me! I never got knocked around afore, and I won’t get knocked around now, and - and - if someone tries to take a go, then I’ll cull 'em! Like I culled _him_!”

Pheres’s not saying anything at all.

“Say something,” you demand, but he’s just watching you, horns down, mouth set. The skin under his eyes is bunching, the tension in his shoulders is growing. If it was anyone else, you’d say he was going to take a swing at you. But this is Pheres.

He doesn’t hit with his _hands_ anymore.

“Because you did such a fine job defending yourself,” he says thinly.

“What would you do if someone went after you? Throw a rock at them, Sipara? Bite them?” The words are spilling out like rocks, like he can’t keep them in, and each stings. The way he’s saying them stings. “We’re not in the desert anymore! And - and what we did wasn’t culling. You can’t cull your -”

“- your quadrants,” he spits out, his eyes bright. “It’s called _murder_. And that’s what people’ll do to you, if you go outside! You’re not big! You’re not tough, you’re not - not anything, except _worthless cullbait_.”

You can’t breathe.

You take a step forward, and he flinches, starts to step back before he realises the cabinet’s right behind him. But then he recovers: squares his shoulders, sticks out his chin. “Take it back,” you demand, your voice quavering, and just as quick, he says: “No.”

“I’m not worthless!”

“Saying that doesn’t make it true. We’re rust, and we’re pupas, and we’re _worthless_ ,” he says, stretching out the word. “The only thing we’re good for is feeding to people’s lusus. And I can _run_ , if someone tries to nab me. What about you?”

“What’re you going to do, if you can’t even _lift your arm?”_

“You’re wrong.” He thinks he knows you, but every words proving that he’s wrong, wrong, wrong. He doesn’t know you at all, not a thing, because you’re not – you killed someone for him. For both of you. You didn’t do that for nothing.

But just because he doesn’t know you doesn’t mean you don’t know him. Your pumpbiscuit’s racing. Your mouth’s dry. Each exhale feels like it hurts, like you’re pushing all the air out of your lungs and it ain’t never going to come back, but your words come out clear. “You’re being stupid,” you snap, because he might know how to hurt you with his words, but you know how to make him _bleed_. “That’s all you are: do you even think anything in there? Or is it all _fluff_? 'cause I can’t tell if it’s you or _Rmeros_ talkin’ right now.”

The name drops like a stone in the water. Pheres flinches like you just hit him, his eyes wide, and for a second you think he’s going to cry about it. What he does instead is hiss at you, his face twisted, sparks cracking off of his horns. “Everything I do doesn’t go back to him! I’m not - I’m -”

“Dunno why I culled him,” you say, “if you ain’t even gonna try to be your own person.”

He tackles you.

You hit the ground with an oomph, but he’s skinny, and only getting skinnier since the two of you bolted. “I have thoughts,” he reeds, “thoughts and opinions and they’re mine!”

“You don’t _know_ that!”

He goes for your face. You grab his wrists, one in each hand, and he hisses at you, trying to wrench them free. His eyes brighten. There’s a spray of sparks, but they’re dim, and he’s cringing, shaking his head like he’s trying to dislodge them before they’re even half-formed. “I do!”

“You don’t! You don’t even know _how_ to think! Alsike says, Rmeros says - you didn’t even know how to think _before_ he came, and now you’re just some shitty copy –”

There’s a blinding pain in your eye. You yowl, jerking away, but you don’t get free. He’s got those skinny knob knees dugging into your side, locked in as tight as a door, and no matter how much you kick, he hangs on.

He doesn’t pop you again. “You were going to die. If I hadn’t gotten someone, you would’ve _died_. You were _so close,_ ” he rasps. “I had to stay up all day to make sure you stayed cold! And - did you know, the mediculler wanted to cull you. She said it wasn’t worth the money to save you.”

“Shut up –”

He leans in. “She said it’d be a mercy,” he says, soft, his knees digging in, and for all that he’s smaller, you can’t knock him off. “- and if I gave the slightest fig, I’d let her.”

“I told her I’d fry her if she tried! She had a knife and she was yellow and I told her that anyway, but - but if you think I’m so awful - if everything I say is just terrible - then I should’ve _let her!”_

You slap him, hard. When your claws drag at his skin, you hook them in. You rip.

Pheres screams.

It’s the worst sound you’ve ever heard, and there’s warmth on your fingers, and an elbow to your face - your gut - everywhere he can hit, tiny hands flailing. (But you don’t stop. You grit your teeth and you curl your fingers in tighter, because _he hurt you_ and that’s not fair, it’s not fair at all–)

You can’t see anything at all, he’s sparking so hard, and you feel that more than see it, each pinprick of pain as they hit your skin. He’s kicking back and you’re kicking back, and - and -

\- suddenly he’s off of you, and your back is hitting the wall, hard.

The room is spinning. There’s lights in your eyes, and you hear more than see Pheres bolt for the door.

When you look down, there’s blood on your hands.

***

A few hours later, your eye is a mottled, ugly brown, and it’s swollen tight as a door. You can’t see _shit._ You don’t want to, either, not when it’s still throbbing like.. well, like someone popped you in the face.

When Bennui got back in, hauling a pair of burnt-black mice, he’d taken one look at you and puffed up, furious. You’d almost felt better, ‘til he’d dived down at you and taken a whack.

There’s blood in your mouth from where he caught you with his wings, but there’s no more painpills in the counter. When you’d went for the fridge, Bennui’d had a go at you again, pecking and smacking until you’d retreated back to the front. 'Tough it out,’ he’d said, with his birdy little eyes and angry mantling: ’- you deserve a little discomfort!’

When the door creaks open, you’re feeling rotten. Your face hurts. Bennui’s hiding on top of the fridge, guarding his mice like they’re the world’s greatest prize and giving you the cold shoulder. (Least he’s stopped lecturing you. But being ignored, as it turns out, isn’t much better.) And you don’t want to see Pheres. You don’t want to see anyone else in the whole, entire world.

But you can’t exactly lock him out of his own hive, no matter how rotten you feel.

‘specially because when he comes into the back, he doesn’t look like he’s feeling much better.

He’s fixed up his face as best as he could, but there’s no fixing the bloody furrows you left. You can see the path of your claws, where some hit his snout and stopped, where the rest curved under and up towards the rest of him. The skin’s peeled back where it’s the deepest, but the entire thing is angry and red and _weeping._

He looks like he’s been, too.

For a moment, both of you just stare.

“.. I wasn’t expecting you to still be here,” he says, brittle.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you blurt out, stepping forward.

Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say, because his face goes tight. But he doesn’t leave, and you take that as encouragement. His eye on that side’s half squinched shut, like it hurts to keep it open, but you didn’t think you knicked it. Did you? You’re leaning forward to see, pusher in your mouth -

\- and he’s skittering back, hissing loud enough that it makes you flinch.

“I’m sorry!”

“You don’t get to hit me,” he says all at once, stumbling over the words. “I hit you, but I didn’t _hurt_ you. And - and it’s _not right_ for you to hit me, when all I’ve been trying to do is help you. I didn’t have to! I didn’t, I didn’t, I’m already a horrible moirail and no one would’ve said _anything_ if I hadn’t, but I did, because you _deserve_ to be helped, and - and -”

“I don’t _deserve to be hit!”_

“I’m sorry,” you squeak. His back is to the door. You take a step back, putting more distance between the two of you. Your arm feels like a dead-weight, dragging you down. There’s red rolling down Pheres’s face, either blood or tears or both, and your vision’s going cloudy with orange.

“I’m an ass. I’m awful, I’m sorry, I’m really, really, _really_ sorry, and – Bennui _bit me_ over it.” Laughing from nerves is Pheres’s thing, but maybe it’s catchin’, because you’re laughing and hiccuping all at once. “He _bit me_ 'cause I hit you and I know that means I fucked up! I’m really, really sorry, dude. You didn’t deserve it. I’m just _awful.”_

He’s supposed to say you aren’t. The two of you’ve seen moirails in the hivestem before. You both know how the script goes.

He squares his shoulders instead, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “.. you are,” he says, petulant. His face is all runny still, the sealed scratches re-opened by all his hissing, but he’s not cringing quite as much anymore. That’s something, right?

“You _are_ awful. But –“ He takes a breath. “I guess we both are. We’ll just have to – have to –“

“Work on it,” you say, hopeful. (Working means he won’t go. Working on it means he won’t _leave._ )

“No more hitting,” he says, and you’re nodding, before the words are even all the way out of his mouth.

* * *

> **11\. COIN | 5.8 SWEEPS / 12 YEARS OLD**

“Betcha five dollars I can beat you up!”

You’re up on top of the bannister of the staircase. The moons are high in the sky, and this is the only place in Temasek you can probably see 'em: everywhere else, it’s all skyscrapers and hivestems and the terraces between 'em, but you’re in the central court. Far enough from the docks that there’s no finny faces, but near enough that everything’s nice and wide and spaced out. Lowbloods don’t mind the clusters, but you’re learning highbloods act like they’ve got a stitch in their britches if they so much as have to see another fellow walking nearby.

But it works out! There’s no building for twenty, thirty feet in any which way, just stone tiles and the raised patio of the courtyard proper, and there’s plenty of folks milling around in every direction. Folks who keep lookin’ at you.

A mossblood makes eye contact. You beam, showing off all of your teeth. “Hey, lady,” you sing, “wanna take a bet?”

She looks at your bandaged arm, at your scruffed up clothes. At your pops, sitting on the bannister next to you like he ain’t got a care in the world. She’s not much older than you! A sweep, maybe, which’s just about perfect. That means five caegars is enough for her to consider it, and not enough to be salty if she loses.

(You lost a tooth, last bloke who tried to get pissy with you after he lost. A clout to his horns dealt with that.)

Her friend laughs, nudges her. “Do it,” she urges. “Or are you scared about some one-armed pupa, lah?”

That’s all greenie needs.

Fighting’s easy, even one-armed. You’re a big kid! A tumble sends her flailing to the ground, and then you grab her by the wrists, twist 'em up above her head. She tries to bite you. You headbutt her right in the nose, then you do it again 'til she yowls empress.

Her friend’s laughing still as she gets up. Greenie’s face is all green and nasty, like she wants to hit you proper. But she flips you a coin all the same.

A dark hand snatches it out of the air before you can.

Pheres’s balancing on the slanted arm of the staircase, stepping down as carelessly as a meowbeast. (He won’t fall. He never, ever falls. His psionics are good for that, at least!) “ _Five_ dollars?” he asks, clicking his tongue.

The mossblood’s out of hearing, but that doesn’t stop him from checking, glancing after her with a quick, furtive smile. “What a cheapskate,” he says, once she’s certain she’s gone. “She’s bigger. She ought’ve bet ten.”

“Well, why don’t you tell her that?’

Pheres doesn’t bother with rude words. He just makes a gesture with his fronds that shows you what he thinks of _that_ idea. And when you laugh, he rocks back on his heels, flashing his teeth like he did something clever.

"Maybe five dollars isn’t much to you, mister fancy pants,” you announce: “- but _some o’ us_ are poor as fuck. Five dollars is like, a _fortune._ ” You bounce forward. He shimmies back. One step for every step. “Five dollars is like, like –”

Pheres beams at you, clasping his hands behind him. “Two plates of tau huay?” he offers, fronds wrapped tight. He can’t think you’ve forgotten he’s got your caegar.

(Both of your caegar, technically: everything the two of you bring in is split. His book money, your fight money. Ain’t no point in keeping it separate when everything you’ve got is shared.)

“Two plates of tau huay and an entire mug of tea. That _I_ earned, so give it!” You sidle around him, but he turns with you, laughing. Pheres’s still tinier than you, all bird bones and pointy limbs, but age is doing weird things to the angles of his face. Before, he was pointy and moon-eyed, with cheeks you could put your palms in, and a nose that a lusus wouldn’t love. But now he’s growing into both of 'em, and there’s flesh to the curves of his face, and he’s almost _pretty._ Especially when he’s pleased.

Not that you’ll ever tell 'em that. He’ll get a big head, and between that and his horns, his neck’d snap right in half.

“You’re thinking something dreadful again, aren’t you? No, don’t argue, I can tell. It’s all, you know –” He presses his palms to the sides of his face, angling his fingers down in a crude imitation of your soundflaps. “Well, think about this. _I_ could stand to eat an entire two plates,” he says, thoughtful. "Everyone says I’m too skinny. In fact, I really think I need to! D'you think they’ll trade the tea for coffee, if I ask nicely?”

“You can’t even eat _half a plate,_ dude, don’t play. If you tried to eat two, you’d – you’d _explode!“_ You fling out your hand to demonstrate, sidling another step in closer. His eyes are so busy tracking your fronds, he doesn’t even notice. "It’d be _gross._ There’d be guts, and organs, and, like, folks crying every which way, on account of the fact they’re all smothered in nasty giblets – _”_

“That’s not _scientifically plausible,”_ he mocks. “That doesn’t even happen in films!”

“Sure it does! I’ve seen zeds blow up all the time in your silly daywalker kissing flicks –”

“I’ll give you the caegar if you’ll shut up,” he says, and he flips the coin right over your head.

You whirl around, lunging after it with your good hand.

When you grab it, it’s heads.


End file.
